


Where You've Been (And Where You're Going)

by Wintervention



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Electrocution, Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M, Ownership, Somnophilia, microchipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-29 06:27:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14466942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintervention/pseuds/Wintervention
Summary: It’s taken him a while to establish some semblance of a rhythm. He hasn’t been allowed to use the nodes, under strict orders from the nurse and from the federation, until they’ve healed- something about not wanting to find one of their up-and-coming skaters (profit-makers) curled up and bleeding out under a running shower having clawed the pieces of metal from his own flesh with his nails.Inspired by 'Life Like Legend' by Nomanono & Potya





	Where You've Been (And Where You're Going)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nomanono](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nomanono/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Life Like Legend](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14112312) by [Nomanono](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nomanono/pseuds/Nomanono). 



It’s not the same venue. It’s not the same city. Hell, it’s half the world away from being the same country. But no matter how many silent mantras he chants over and over in his head, a clinically tiled room is still a clinically tiled room. It still smells of the same disinfectant, tickling his nose and stinging his eyes, and the chill of an unaccountably stuffy room still brings the hairs on his arms to attention. The bottom of his shoes presses soft against a hurriedly laid provisional linoleum floor, as a dying, flickering light swings above his head.

There’s a terrifyingly familiar atmosphere in the air, weighing down on his shoulders and his heart.

It’s not him, not this year, not ever again. He doesn’t have to endure the stick of a wipe-clean fabric bench to his bared back, or the rough, impatient pull and push of a nurse’s hands (and the next day sting of his latex allergy). He won’t be the one shivering in the back of a car on its way to an unknown building later, or trying to settle between unfamiliar sheets.

No, that pleasure falls to the accidentally artfully arranged lithe limbs, silken silver hair and pale flesh sitting nervously in the furthest corner of the room from the door, twisting the fabric of his shirt in his delicate hands and looking anywhere but at him. How fortunate he is, and he hopes the boy is quick to realise that- for his own sake.

 

Choosing the placement is easy enough- anti-climactic, even. He has his own map of rice grain scars, unchanged by any cream or oil or amount of surgery; it’s almost pathetic he hasn’t found a more worthy cause to throw his money at.

Ankles. Thighs. The one on his wrist everyone is given. That one takes the longest to heal, leaves the biggest scar. He’d thought it had hurt the most too, at first. It’s still there, though the glow under his skin is dull compared to the blue light of his juniour’s. It wouldn’t surprise him to find out that a decent amount of the ISU’s budget was dedicated to… _development_.

He’s been allotted five, one more than his own patron- but he’s spent enough nights under hot, wet breaths on the back of his neck, pressed beneath a sturdier torso than his own, with nothing else to do but listen, to know exactly where he should lay the final piece of the deliciously iniquitous puzzle.

The nurse turns the boy on his stomach. She’s young, she’d smirked with reddened cheeks when he told her where to inject the final chip- it might be the first time she’s done it. Maybe she’ll need to bring another nurse in to help, there’ll be one somewhere; he’s heard stories. She pulls the thin paper curtain separating him from the rest of the room’s curious eyes shut, bless her heart, so he watches through the gap- no need to put the poor thing under any more stress, he can see him trembling enough as it is. He’s just ingenuous enough to do it with his head held high, and his eyes red but not wet.

 

“That’s a fine specimen you’ve got for yourself there- many congratulations,”

There’s a man in an ill-fitting suit behind him, fingers twitching on the edge of the curtain, pulling it open by a few inches to get a better look. He’s seen him before at many an event, some federation official, but now he can’t peel his eyes away to greet him properly. It’s not as if he’ll respond anyway- he’s just as enthralled by the scene, and rightly so.

 

There’s a shocked squeak, a hiss, and a pained growl in the bottom of the boy’s throat- more of a whine, really- barely muffled by the harsh press of his forearm to his mouth. It’s the most noise he’s made since they’d been pushed together and he’d introduced himself, and he’d only done that under the proctor’s watchful eye.

But he doesn’t fight it, not like some of the others have done.

The official seems to find it rather amusing. He chuffs, satisfied, and claps him over the shoulder with a firm hand. He still can’t stop himself from flinching at the contact.

 

“I’ll leave you be. We’ll speak later. Best of luck to you both,”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s long since turned dark when he finally manages to throw himself through the bedroom door. Tonight, he stays on his feet rather than falling straight to the carpet- a personal triumph these days- but the light switch still seems a distant and daunting prospect. The blinds are shut. The bedside lamp is off. The door to the en suite is pulled to, but not shut. Empty. The television has been on, though now isn’t showing anything more than a grey static standby screen, and helps little in illuminating the room enough for him to navigate.

He finds the bed easily enough- there’s someone in it, breathing so softly, taking up so little room, and not even twitching a finger in acknowledgement of his arrival, that it’s almost as if he’s not there at all. It’s unlikely that he’s moved all day. He often doesn’t. The other side of the bed is still immaculately made.

It’s taken him a while to establish some semblance of a rhythm. He hasn’t been allowed to use the nodes, under strict orders from the nurse and from the federation, until they’ve healed- something about not wanting to find one of their up-and-coming skaters (profit-makers) curled up and bleeding out under a running shower having clawed the pieces of metal from his own flesh with his nails.

He wouldn’t be the first.

 

With feather-light hands he begins to peel back the duvet, careful not to wake the sleeping figure. Even in the low light, he can see that Viktor isn’t wearing anything. He’s learned fast.

His hands hover, feeling the warmth radiate from the boy’s skin, as he scans the soft curve of his body. He watches his chest swell and fall with barely-there breaths in and out. He dares to lay gentle fingertips on his thigh. There’s bruises on the white expanse, and plenty of them- he can’t see them, but Viktor’s eyelashes flutter when he catches one under his touch- mostly from falls to the ice that still manage to be just as graceful as his skating. He’s been gentler towards Viktor than the unforgiving frozen surface.

 

There’s a rule: he’s not supposed to impede the training of his junior. But rules seem to mean little off the rink, so he’s been positively benevolent- sharing his bed, free reign of the suite. The boy should be grateful. Though it’s not as though he doesn’t get his promised return.

 

Still crouched by the bedside, he dots a tender trail up his leg, traces the lines of his hip and snakes a hand around to follow the arch of his back. The younger doesn’t even stir as his curious touch slides down to cup his toned cheeks, or when he hums his approval. It still doesn’t feel real, that the perfect, prone form in his bed is his to do with as he pleases- and then he remembers that he’d once been in that place, and suddenly it truly hits him how much he’d earned this privilege.

To drag his hand away is a monumental effort, more so than moving to turn on the lights (and thus, ruining the atmosphere, he thinks to himself,). He brings the first two fingers of his right hand to his lips, and hurriedly slickens them with his saliva as though he hasn’t got all the time in the world- Viktor doesn’t know how good he’s got it. A shiver courses through his veins as he pushes them back up between the boy’s legs, barely containing an anticipatory tremble.

He studies Viktor’s still, serene face as his index finger circles his hole- still ever so slightly loose from the morning’s intimate foray, but still tight enough with youth and inexperience that the tantalising suspense is not immediately ruined by his eagerness. He wants to see the exact moment he realises what is happening. He wants to see his eyes widen like a deer looking down the barrel of a hunting rifle, and to hear the soft, surprise gasp from between chapped lips.

 

His finger breeches the tight ring of muscle, the other not far behind it, and Viktor reacts exactly how he’d wanted him to. There’s a moment in which he doesn’t fully understand what’s happening, his mind too clouded by sleep. His eyes twitch open, and he lifts his head- then he feels it. His hands and feet scrabble for purchase on the silken sheets as he tries to pull away from the stretching sensation, not nearly awake enough to consider any repercussions to his blatant refusal, until the fingers hook inside him and drag down, and trying to sit up or shuffle away becomes impossible. He stills.

He chances a look at his senior, now moving to stand and loom over his figure with his fingers still in place. His torso is twisted in an odd way to accommodate the intrusion, and moving his hands to preserve the dignity he seems to think he still has appears to be nothing more than an afterthought. He barely catches the elder’s line of sight for a mere second, less in fact, before turning his gaze away with a resigned, solemn sigh and the ever so slight slump of his noble shoulders. It doesn’t go unnoticed.

 

“Bored of me already, are you? I hear Ilyukhin has been asking after you, if you’d prefer him. Or perhaps both of us? _Little whore_ ,”

 

It feels far too good to be in this position, finally.

“Open your legs for me,”

 

Viktor eyes him cautiously- there’s something different in his eyes tonight- and presses his thighs more firmly together.

 

He keeps the control panel in his pocket, as he has done since they left the medical facility, for no initially apparent reason other to remind himself that it’s in his hands now. It doesn’t look too dissimilar to his mobile phone- there’s a collection of buttons, a small display screen. He’s heard there are plans to wire the nodes directly to phones or personal computers, which have yet to come to fruition. He’s been itching to use it, and he’s managed to suppress the desire for the last week while the junior has healed and acclimatised. Now, said junior in his new found defiance, has given him the perfect excuse to try it out.

He can almost hear the quick hum above Viktor’s sharp intake of breath as the boy violently and suddenly kicks forward, and throws his head back in sudden shock, slamming it against the bed frame. His hands slip out from beneath him when his fists clench tightly, and in the throes of the electricity he manages to squirm away from the senior’s fingers.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Viktor turned to him with a gaze full of betrayal. But he does, and he knows there was no relationship there to be betrayed. No, Viktor looks at him with eyes brimming with anger, hatred and resentment. Lord, he knows those feelings all too well, but there’s no time to dwell on it. An evening of drinking has left his limbs unsure and his eyelids heavy with alcohol-induced fatigue, and he wants to try out his new toy before he truly collapses in to a mindless stupor.

 

He stands to his full height, drags the covers off the bed fully, and grasps the boy’s shaking arms with a commanding grip, flipping him to lie flat on his stomach as if he was a ragdoll and climbing up on to the mattress behind him. There’s no reaction as he plunges his fingers, now dry, in to the body beneath him, and roughly strokes the flesh inside.

“You know where the others are,” he taunts with a threatening smile, “it’d be such a shame if I were forced to use them,”

 

He can see why the scheme was introduced. There’s never been something so delectable in his life as white flesh shining with sweat bucking beneath him, tangled hair wrapped up in his fist, or the captivating moans of someone so desperate to please. The feeling is addictive, far more than any illicit substance he may have dabbled in.

 

The controller has been cast aside, for now.

 

* * *

 

 

Viktor doesn’t know how Yuri can bear to sleep- he certainly can’t. He finds himself sat at the breakfast table in the kitchenette, shirtless and shivering. The dining alcove is bathed in an artificial light from where his phone sits open, the screen dimmed but still intrusively bright. He Watches the heart monitor count idle, relaxed beats. He’s not sure what to do with his hands, moving them from tapping on the table, to folding in his lap, to rubbing his prominent collarbone as if in anticipation for Lord knows what.

The buzz of the notification is deafening in the otherwise deathly silent room.

 

**Christophe**

**Ça va?**

Christophe has taken a junior this year, _of course_ he has, but as a highly-esteemed advocate for so-called 'beauty sleep', it doesn’t make sense for him to be awake in the earliest hours of the morning. But as a man who knows Viktor more than Viktor knows himself (as Viktor sometimes thinks), it’s not something that comes as much of a surprise.

 

**Viktor**

**Ça va.**

 

He can’t remember the last time he spent the night in silence. The droning sound of a television turned to its lowest volume has long since been a mainstay in his bedroom, left off for the first time as a matter of courtesy. There’s nothing other than his own breathing- Yuri sleeps like a corpse. And Viktor can’t stand it.

**Author's Note:**

> It took writing this to realise I don't know how to start a sentence other than with the word 'He'.
> 
> Inspired by the amazing fanfiction 'Life Like Legend' by the wonderful Nomanono & Potya. I found the concept and the story to be fascinating, so I wanted to work with the idea. All of the concepts of this fic are derived from that.
> 
> I've tried to keep it quite vague to avoid imposing on the original authors' ideas for this Alternate Universe, and have slightly adjusted some details to better work them in to the story.


End file.
